


(No) Boundaries

by yodasyoyo



Series: 2000 tumblr followers celebration! (Sterek fics) [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Curses, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Sort Of, Witches, so much snark and UST you'll wanna crack these guys heads together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 19:05:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19836607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo
Summary: “Oh no! Don’t you dare put this on me! I tried to talk her down, after you goaded—”“Goaded?”“You goaded. Don’t pretend you didn’t goad. You goaded your petty ass off. With your shitty little wave, and your sarcasm.”“You’re the one who knocked her drink over her, and you’re the one who wouldn’t shut-up!”





	(No) Boundaries

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notenoughgatorade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notenoughgatorade/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Boundaries](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15933779) by [yodasyoyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo). 



> Sooooo... the AMAZING notenoughgatorade prompted me: man, i want something for the 2000 follower celebration! i'm so happy for you but gosh i am terrible with prompts, how about i ask you to write something based on YOUR favorite trope?
> 
> The thing is ages ago I wrote a tiny little ficlet for my 1000 follower celebration called Boundaries, and (idk if you remember this, S,) but you IM'd me on tumblr, and said you wanted more. So when you didn't know what to prompt? I decided to do write more. I HOPE THAT'S OK.

“I can’t believe you.”

“Shut-up, Stiles.”

“You shut-up, and for once just listen.” They shuffle forward as the queue at Starbucks moves. Derek had hoped that if he ducked in here it would get him out of this lecture, figured maybe if they were around regular people Stiles would let the subject drop; but then his luck has never been great where Stiles is concerned. Leaning right into Derek’s personal space Stiles hisses, “We need a strategy.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I have a strategy.” 

“Ripping throats out is not a strategy!” Stiles says much too loudly.

The woman who’s standing in front of them in the queue half turns and glares at them. “I’m on the phone,” she says, waving her cell at them.

Derek gives her the ol’ thousand yard stare; he has no sympathy. He’s spent years suffering through Stiles’ random outbursts, this woman is just gonna have to suck it up for five minutes. 

To his credit, Stiles lifts his hands. “Sorry!” he says. “Sorry.” Under his breath he whispers. “And now we’re terrorizing random women in Starbucks. Geez, could you at least _try_ and smile or something? You look like a fucking serial killer.”

Slowly, Derek turns to look at him. “Why don’t you give me something to smile about,” he says. To be fair, he means it to be an insult— means it to imply that Stiles should leave. But at his words Stiles’ eyes go wide, and Derek can hear the uptick in his heartbeat, the way his scent blossoms with that little hint of arousal; it’s an interesting development, but not a new one. Stiles has always been kind of horny, and Derek— well, if he’s really honest, somewhere in the last couple of years that fact went from annoying and uncomfortable, to being something— else.

Smirking, Derek raises an eyebrow. The blush now spreading up Stiles’ chest and neck, and over his cheeks, is a gratifying and very pretty shade of pink; all at once Stiles changes tack. “Strategy!” He jabs a finger in Derek’s generally direction. “We need a strategy to deal with the problem.”

“We could just get you to talk to them.”

Stiles cuts him a look. “Because of my superior negotiating skills?”

“Because if they talk to you for longer than five minutes, they’ll probably leave of their own accord. You are pretty annoying.”

“I—” Stiles splutters, “Annoying!? Me? _I’m_ the annoying one?”

“I am on. The phone.” The woman in front of them hisses again.

“We know,” Derek smiles meanly. “You said before.”

Her eyes narrow; she opens her mouth like she’s about to speak, but then all at once the barista calls her forward and she goes, shooting them both a look that promises a swift death.

Derek waves her good-bye with a smug smile.

“I am not annoying,” Stiles says lowly, and all in a rush. “ _You_ are the annoying one. I am back from Stanford for two days, and you somehow manage to get embroiled in a territory dispute with selkies!” He’s getting louder and louder with every word. “And then you drag me into it— because whenever you and your stellar social skills manage to fuck something up, it’s always _me_ that has to smooth things—”

“I didn’t ask you to help,” Derek says.

“You never do.” Stiles throws his hands up in the air. “That’s half the problem. If you asked for help sometimes, then maybe—”

“Hey. I have no problem with asking for help— but you aren’t helpful.”

Stiles’ jaw drops, the expression on his face is one of utter betrayal. “I’m not— You’d be dead without me! Literally. Like, several times over!” He staggers back a step dramatically, and straight into the woman with the phone, who is now— carrying a tray loaded with a large frappuccino and a slice of cake. The tray upends, and the drink goes everywhere, well— mostly over the woman; the cake hits the floor with a loud splat.

“Oh my god,” she says, furiously. “Seriously?”

“It was his fault,” Stiles and Derek both say at once, gesturing at each other.

She glares at them, and as Derek watches her pupils seem to swallow up her irises until only endless black remains; when he inhales, electricity crackles on the tip of Derek’s tongue. Magic.

“Witch,” he growls.

“Oh shit!” Stiles pales. “Look, we’re sorry, ok? We don’t want any trouble. It’s just there’s this whole thing where grumpy gus over here managed to piss of a bunch of—”

“I don’t. Care.”

“-Selkies, and now I’m trying to help save his ungrateful ass, but—”

“I don’t care.”

“-He won’t accept advice, or listen ever, really. And he basically has zero social skills as you can see. Sometimes I think I should just lock him in a room and make him—”

“I don’t. _Care._ ”

“-google basic manners, because frankly he’s coasted by on the fact he’s really ridiculously good-looking for far too long and if I have to spend five more minutes with him I’m gonna—”

“Oh my god.” She clicks her fingers.

Stiles stops talking, and Derek’s not sure whether it’s out of fear, or because the witch just magicked him quiet.

“The two of you,” she shakes her head, and exhales slowly. “You have issues, and I’m— I’m gonna give you a little gift, to help you resolve them.” At that she smiles.

Derek reaches out and tries to herd Stiles behind him, ready to take the hit, naturally Stiles resists, shooting Derek an annoyed look.

All the witch does though, is click her fingers again. “Enjoy, boys!” she says, and with that, she stomps out of Starbucks and away, dripping a trail of frappuccino behind her.

The two of them turn to watch her go.

“You feel ok?” Stiles asks, out the corner of his mouth.

Derek does a mental pat down. Then he grunts, and shrugs his shoulders. There’s nothing wrong with him as far as he can tell-- whatever spell she intended misfired.

“Me too.” Stiles heaves a sigh of relief. “Well that was close. I really thought she was gonna do something terrible to us for a moment.”

“Excuse me,” says a pissed off looking barista, carrying a mop and bucket.

Stiles winces guiltily as they both step out the way.

God, Derek thinks, they’re gonna have to leave a big tip.

-

Later, when they finally leave Starbucks, Stiles says, “So, I’ll come over to your place later and we’ll finalize a plan.”

Derek sighs. “Please don’t.”

“Ah. So you do know how to say please, interesting. That’s good progress. I’m gonna bring you a gold star later. We’ll set up some kind of reward chart. If you get ten stickers I’ll—”

“Leave me alone?”

“And you just lost your first star. Manners, Derek,” He wags a finger. “--they maketh man.”

“Whoever said that had never met you.”

Stiles shakes his head. “You’re a dick, Hale,” he singsongs, as he turns to leave. He’s only walked about three steps when pain surges in Derek’s stomach, knife-sharp and blinding. With every step Stiles takes, it twists, until Derek feels like he’s being gutted from the inside out. For his part Stiles has stopped, crumpled over, hands gripping his stomach.

“Ergghhh,” he says.

Staggering forward, Derek closes the distance between them; the pain dissipates immediately, until only the echo of it remains.

“So I think I worked out what the witch did,” Derek says.

“No shit.” Stiles scrubs a hand over his face. “Oh my god, I hate my life.”

-

“Okay,” Stiles says ten minutes later. They’d returned to Starbucks briefly, partly to regroup, and partly because Derek needed to piss. Now, he watches in amusement as Stiles whirls around to face the bathroom wall when he pops the button on his jeans. 

“Okay,” Stiles says again, voice shaking ever so slightly. “If we’re gonna survive this shituation, I think we’re gonna have to lay down some ground rules. Set a few boundaries.” 

Derek inches his zipper down; Stiles’ shoulders stiffen, and an uneven flush creeps up the back of his neck.

“We’re not gonna make up any stupid fucking rules, Stiles. Jesus. We’re just gonna find the goddamn witch that put us in this situation and I’m gonna gut on her on my claws. Problem solved.”

“And what if we need her in order to break the spell, genius? Did you think about that?”

“Stiles—”

“No. You didn’t, because you don’t think. You don’t make plans. No strategy. You just act.”

“I make plans.”

“Really? Plans? You make plans? You’re suggesting the events of the past hour, or let’s be honest now, the last five years of my life since you grumped into the preserve and threw an inhaler at me and Scott, have been the result of previous planning on your part? Seriously?”

“Don’t blame me, you’re the one who pissed off a— ”

“Me?” Stiles throws up his hands. “What about you? With your little smug little wave, and your glare, and your bad attitude, and your— your eyebrows!”

“My eyebrows?”

“I have to be back at Stanford in two days, Derek,” he whines, “two days! I have to give a presentation.”

“And I said I’ll deal with it. Now quit complaining,” He glares down at his dick, which is having some performance anxiety. “I can’t pee when you’re arguing with me.”

“I can’t believe this is my life,” Stiles mutters, his head thunks against the tiles. In the quiet that follows there’s no sound except, well— “Oh god. I can’t believe I’m locked in a bathroom listening to the world's most annoying werewolf pee.”

“So stick your fingers in your ears,” Derek says flatly.

“I’m just saying there’s nothing wrong with wanting to set boundaries while we’re stuck like this,” Stiles says, choosing to ignore that comment, and not covering his ears. “And a little bit less attitude off the idiot who got us into this mess would be appreciated.” He pauses. “Oh god, it just occurred to me,” he says, wheeling back around, apparently without thinking, “do you think that— oh my god that’s a big dick. That’s a big goddamn dick— that’s–” His hands fly to his mouth, eyes wide, gaze transfixed on Derek’s penis. For one moment it seems like he’s frozen in shock, but then his eyes dart up to meet Derek’s. He’s blushing a furious shade of red, and the sweet scent of arousal fills the air again. “I— uh. I-" He drops his hands from his mouth, which is perfectly pink and distractingly open. “I—uh.” 

Derek takes a breath carefully not inhaling through his nose, and raises one eyebrow as he shakes his dick off; Stiles’ eyes dart down again, then away. 

“You want rules, huh? Boundaries? Rule number one,” Derek says with just a hint of a smirk. “If you keep looking at mine, I’m gonna expect you to show me yours.” If the scent of arousal was thick before, now it’s almost unbearable, Derek can practically taste it. 

Stiles swallows, hands shaking slightly. Slowly, oh so slowly, he turns away again to face the wall. “I hate my life— ” he moans, as Derek zips his jeans up. “--and I hate you.”  
  
It’s a lie. They both know it. There’s a lot of feeling between them, but hate? Derek grins to himself as he washes his hands. God, he’s half hard in his underwear, and from the scent of things, Stiles is too. 

He shakes the water off his hands-- there are no paper towels, and he hates the noise of the hand dryer. Then he crosses to where Stiles is still standing facing the wall, his shoulders a solid bar of tension.

Without touching him Derek leans in and whispers, “Me and my big goddamn dick are ready to leave now.”

Immediately Stiles jumps in shock, and Derek narrowly avoids taking an elbow to the chest.

“When we find her again,” Stiles spits, whirling around to face Derek with flailing limbs, “I hope she curses you so it falls off.”

“No,” Derek says, meeting his eyes steadily. Stiles is so close that Derek can feel the puff of his breath grazing his cheek. “No. I don’t think you do.”

Stiles gulps. “I hate you,” he says. “So much hate.”

Derek sweeps past him, opens the door to the bathroom and then holds it for Stiles so he can go through.

“Lie,” Derek says, with a grin, and dodges as Stiles tries to elbow him in the gut, this time deliberately.

-

“Whaddya mean you can’t find a scent trail?” Stiles wails once they’re out front of Starbucks again.

“What do you think I mean?” Derek grinds out, hands bunching into fists. This is the worst. The goddamn worst. “If you can’t contribute something useful to the conversation, then shut the fuck up.”

Stiles inflates his cheeks, and then blows out a sigh. “Ok. Fine. Help me out here. Are you saying that she didn’t have a scent at all? Like, not even when she was in the coffee shop with us? Or has the trail just disappeared by magic.”

“I don’t—” Derek frowns, trying to remember. 

“Because one of those things is different from the other.”

“If—”

“And I woulda thought that a super-experienced born wolf like _you,_ ” he scowls. “Would have noticed if a person was effectively scentless.”

“Well maybe I would have done if someone else hadn’t been so completely fucking distracting—”

“Oh no! Don’t you dare put this on me! I tried to talk her down, after you goaded—”

“Goaded?”

“You goaded. Don’t pretend you didn’t goad. You goaded your petty ass off. With your shitty little wave, and your sarcasm.”

“You’re the one who knocked her drink over her and _you’re_ the one who wouldn’t shut-up!”

“Ugh!” Stiles throws his hands up in the air. “You know what. I cannot. I am done. Like a good Samaritan I spent my time trying to help you with the fucking interspecies war you’ve probably started, and now I’m cursed by a witch. If that’s all the thanks I get then you can take your fucking judgy eyebrows, and your ungrateful attitude and your perfect dick, and shove them up your ass.”

“Perfect dick?” Derek mouths.

“Shut. Up.” Wheeling around dramatically, Stiles storms off.

“Stiles wait—” It’s too late, seconds later Derek’s doubled over in searing pain, and when he looks up, Stiles is crouched on the sidewalk a few feet away, not much better. Gritting his teeth, Derek hobbles over to him.

“Don’t fucking do that,” he hisses, spots pinwheeling before his eyes.

“Well don’t be an asshat then,” Stiles pants, clutching his stomach. 

“We’re gonna get in the car, and go back to my place,” Derek says decisively, once the pain has passed.

“Mine place is closer,” Stiles says. “And I have better books. And my laptop isn't still running Windows 7.”

“Fine, your place. Whatever. But we’re taking my car.”

“The Jeep--”

“My. Car.” If Derek has to spend the next god knows how long unable to move more than three feet from Stiles fucking Stilinski, and stay at his place, then he at least gets to keep the Camaro.

-

They set up in Stiles’ bedroom. Because of the curse, they end up sitting on the bed side by side, Stiles sits cross-legged, with his laptop open, ready to get typing, while Derek prepares to read through Stiles’ impressive collection of ancient grimoires.

“Maybe we should call Deaton,” Stiles says. “He might know a local coven, or have an idea how to break the curse himself.”

Derek grunts. “Yeah. I’m sure he’ll be _very_ helpful.”

“Hah.”

“Probably give us some mystical shit about balance and impartiality. That or he’ll give us advice that sounds like the sorta thing Yoda would write in a fortune cookie.”

“Right?” Stiles snorts. “Look within yourselves you should, for close the answers are.”

Derek snickers. 

In the end Stiles does phone Deaton, but the call goes to voicemail, so he leaves a message. “Do you think he’s gonna get back to us at all?” Stiles says, staring down at his cell phone, his face screwed up in a frown.

“Nah. He’s probably vacationing on Dagoba,” Derek says, absently, turning a page of the book that’s open on his knees.

Next to him Stiles grins.

-

They get through the rest of the day. Together they exhaust their local supernatural contacts, but no one seems to recognize their description of the witch, and without a scent trail to follow it’s impossible to track her. So most of their energy goes into research. Shortly after leaving the message for Deaton, Stiles cracks his knuckles and gets typing.

“Fortunately for you, Derek, I am an expert in Google-Fu.”

“Wow. Next time we’re being threatened I’ll remember that. Hey, maybe you should come with me and talk to the Selkies. If things kick off you can whoop their asses with your laptop—”

“Research,” Stiles says, imperiously. “Preparedness. You’re a mocking mocker who mocks but my research has pulled your ass out of the fire many, _many_ times. In fact just to spite you, I will google Selkies. And I bet whatever I discover ends up saving the fucking day.”

-

The Sheriff is working a double, and the rest of the pack is still away at college, so the whole day passes uninterrupted. Around 5 o’clock Stiles yawns, stretching obnoxiously, his shirt riding up. Derek rolls his eyes, even as his gaze snags on the small patch of skin just above Stiles’ hip; he looks away quickly.

“Hungry?” Stiles says.

Derek’s ravenous. He shrugs. “I could eat.”

It turns out that Stiles makes a mean grilled cheese. Somehow they end up slumped in front of the TV and watch reruns of The Bachelorette, eating their sandwiches, and sipping soda.

One episode turns into two, turns into five. And suddenly Derek blinks and realizes it’s dark outside.

“So, I guess you’re staying over,” Stiles says, head lolling toward him.

“I guess.”

“You want the bed or the floor?”

“You think the spell is gonna allow us that choice?”

Stiles screws up his face in a frown. “Probably not,” he admits. 

-

“I just want you to know,” Stiles says later, once they’ve brushed their teeth and Derek's stripped down to his boxer briefs. “That I am not responsible for any—” He swallows, fingers plucking restlessly at the grody t-shirt he changed into for bed. “I’m just saying. I’m a healthy nineteen year old guy. And I know you’re all old, and things probably aren’t working as well down south—”

Derek stares at him.

“--but don’t kill me.” Stiles says. “If anything. If I—” He gestures vaguely in the direction of his batman boxers. “In the night. Or in the morning. If completely natural and normal physiological responses occur then-- then can we just agree to brush it off? We both know it doesn’t mean anything.” His heartbeat skips wildly. “We’re not like that. Neither of us feel that way about each other. And I don’t want you to gut me just because—”

“Fine. I promise me and my perfect dick won’t be offended if you get a boner.”

Stiles’ eyes narrow. “Asshole.”

Derek throws himself onto the far side of Stiles’ bed, and lays back, hands behind his head, grinning up at him. 

“That’s my side,” Stiles says.

“Not anymore.”

“You don’t understand. I need that pillow.”

Derek reaches for it and lobs it at his head. Stiles catches it, mostly with his face, and clutches it in his arms as he glares at Derek.

“I mean it,” he says. “Don’t make a big deal out of this.”

“I’m not the one making a big deal,” Derek points out, sitting up slightly and leaning back on his elbows.

“Yeah. Because it doesn’t _mean_ anything to you,” Stiles mutters.

Something in Derek softens a little at that admission, he’s not even sure if Stiles realizes he said it, or what it implies. “Just get into bed,” he says gruffly. “It’ll be fine.”

Swallowing, Stiles places his pillow down carefully, patting it several times. Then slowly he slides under the comforter, pulling it up around himself until it’s nearly at his chin. He turns and blinks at Derek with those stupid big bambi eyes. Hell, forget witches. Forget magic. They’re the real weapons.

Derek scowls. “Jesus. You look like the grandma in Little Red Riding Hood.”

“Well I am in bed next to the big bad wolf. I don’t want to get eaten.”

“I’m not gonna eat you,” Derek says, settling back on the bed and making himself comfortable. “You’re all skin and bone, you’ll get stuck in my teeth.”

Stiles shoots him a disapproving look, and then, still giving Derek the old hairy eyeball, he reaches over and turns the light out.

-

He’ll never admit to anyone, but Derek’s lulled to sleep by the fast but steady pitpat of Stiles’ heartbeat.

-

He wakes, nearly two hours later according to the alarm clock, to find he’s way too hot. Something large and warm and slightly damp has koalaed itself to his back. It takes his sleepified brain about half a minute to realize that the koala is Stiles.

Derek smacks his dry lips a little and swallows, “Stiles,” he says, voice little more than a hoarse scrape. When there’s no response he repeats, “Stiles.”

“Fivemominutes,” Stiles mutters, rubbing his scratchy cheek against Derek’s shoulder. Then he nestles even further in, and that is when Derek feels it.

He sucks in a breath and goes completely still.

Looks like he’s not the only one with a big dick. Geez. A second later Stiles presses even closer in, and his hips start to move in lazy circles, cock rubbing up against the crease of Derek’s ass.

It feels— ugh— it feels really good. Better than Derek ever imagined it would; he shifts his position a little, his own dick pressing up against the mattress, and yup. That’s great. He’s hard too.  
  
Stiles’ restless grinding has developed into a steady rhythm; even through their respective underwear Derek can feel the heat of him, the thick press of him as he ruts mindlessly. Oh god, it feels-- Derek really needs to stop this. 

“Mmhhh,” Stiles groans, his fingers curled right into the taut flesh of Derek’s waist. 

“Stiles!” This time Derek says it louder, and reaches back to jab him in the ribs with his fingers.

There’s a second where Stiles’ rhythm stutters, and his grip on Derek’s waist tightens to the point where it hurts. Then he’s awake.

“Oh my god!” Stiles launches himself back with abandon, and it’s only Derek’s werewolf reflexes that mean he’s saved from flinging himself back off the bed completely, causing them both a world of pain. As it is, Derek’s gripping him by the arm, tight enough to bruise.

“Don’t,” he says firmly. “Just don’t.”

“Oh shit. Oh shit,” Stiles mutters, and Derek can smell the sour stench of embarrassment leaking off him in waves. “Oh my god. I am so sorry. I am. Oh god.”

Derek swallows, and, judging that Stiles is no longer a flight risk, lets go of his arm. He pointedly doesn’t look down at where Stiles is still tenting his underwear, although he can make it out in his peripheral vision. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, Derek. I just assaulted you in my sleep.” Stiles yanks his pillow into his lap. “Maybe I should sleep on the floor.”

“No,” Derek says. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll likely both be in pain if you do that.”

“But—”

“It’s ok, Stiles.”

“How is it ok?”  
  
“It just is.”

“No it isn’t! Why are you being so chill about this? I literally just fucking octopussed myself to you and tried to dryhump you like a horny puppy. God. I spend the last two years of my life trying to _prove_ to you that I’m an adult, and that you can stop treating me like an irritating kid. Then the stupid fucking universe devises a situation which forces us to share a bed together, and I completely fucking embarass myself in front of the guy I— ” He stops short of finishing the sentence, although it looks like it takes a lot.

“The guy you what?”

Stiles exhales roughly through his nose. “You know what.” 

There’s a long silence. Derek swallows. He feels like his mind should be whirling, buzzing, screaming. It should be on fire, but actually now the moment’s here it’s perfectly clear. This is it. This is inevitable.

“Stiles,” he says.

Stiles doesn’t respond. He just shuffles to sit with his back up against the headboard, knees raised, pillow still in his lap.

“Stiles,” Derek says again, kneeling up.

“What, Derek?”

Leaning forward, Derek reaches out with one hand and cups his cheek.

Stiles goes completely totally still. Derek’s pretty sure even his heart stops in that moment. “Derek?” he says, cautiously. “What are you doing?”

“This,” Derek says, and kisses him.

There’s a second where Stiles just sits there, completely frozen and then, with a groan he leans in, clutching at Derek’s shoulder, his waist, the back of his head, hands scrabbling desperately for whatever they can reach. “Oh shit,” he murmurs between frantic kisses. “Are you sure? Are you serious? Wait is this part of the curse? Because I don't think it is but—”

With a growl of frustration Derek grabs him by the waist and flips them until he has Stiles under him. Then he kisses him again, slowly. "I know what I want, Stiles. And I know that it's me wanting it. If you want to stop-"

“No!” Stiles swallows. “That’s. I know what I want too. I just- wanted to be sure that we were both. Sure.”

“Unless she hit you with a babbling curse,” Derek says, pausing long enough to lean up on one arm and look at him. "Then this isn't curse related, this is just about-" He rolls his hips. "-us"

“Har har, babbling curse. Very f— oh geez, do that—” Stiles breaks off with a groan as there cocks slide against each other; it isn’t quite enough, not through two pairs of underwear, but it’s still really fucking good.

“Wanna,” Derek growls, pressing sloppy kisses against Stiles’ neck as he grinds down with his hips. “Just. For fucks sake.” He reaches down and tugs.

“Hey! Hey! Those are my favorite underpants!” Stiles squawks, but it’s too late, they’re sailing across the room, and Derek’s follow seconds later. “That’s— ok, no. Right. Good idea. Your first by the way. We should--ungh— yeah. Like that. Celebrate. Make a— ohmygod. A certificate or—”

Derek kisses him. Mainly to shut him up, but also because he enjoys it. Stiles retaliates by slapping his ass, and Derek hums with pleasure.

In the end, it doesn’t last long after that. They pause once, while Stiles gropes around the drawer of his nightstand for lotion, squeezes some onto his palm and then gets one hand around both him and Derek as best he can. His grip is not as tight as Derek would use on himself, but the pace he sets has Derek’s toes curling. By the time Derek can feel pressure building low in his groin, all he can do is cling onto Stiles for dear life and hope he doesn’t pass out with how good it feels.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Stiles chants, “Fuck. Shit. Derek. You feel. You’re just so—” He comes, and the scent, the sound, the taste of Stiles’ salt-sweat skin against his tongue, has Derek spilling too, moments later.

Seconds later Stiles slumps on top of him, and they both lay there for a moment, panting. Derek presses his nose into Stiles hair, and breathes the scent of him in deep. 

“We should go get a washcloth,” Stiles says, because apparently his brain never switches off, even after orgasm.

“Ugh,” Derek grunts, tugging him in closer; he doesn’t want either of them to move, he just wants to enjoy the afterglow.

“I’m serious,” Stiles says, squirming. “I don’t want to be glued together with jizz, that’ll be gross. Have you ever tried to get dried jizz out of chest hair? It’s—”

“So we can mark sex off the list,” Derek says.

Stiles pauses. “What list?”

“The list I’m compiling of ways to get you to stop talking. Sex. It doesn’t work.”

Stiles slaps him across the chest, but it’s half-hearted. “Just for that you can get your own washcloth.”

"Like I wasn’t gonna have to get out of bed anyways?" Derek scowls. "It can wait five minutes, Stiles."

"Ugh. Fine." 

-

When they wake the next morning, it’s to sunlight streaming in through a crack in Stiles’ curtains. Stiles is laying flat on his back, one arm slung around Derek, whose head is resting on his chest.

Derek cracks an eye, he doesn’t want to move yet, but in truth, they ought to. Apart from anything else they need to find a way to break this curse. Still five more minutes won’t do any— 

“Mornin’” Stiles mumbles.

Slowly Derek lifts his head to look at him. “Hey.”

Stiles teeth worry his bottom lip. “So,” he says. “Last night, huh. That was a thing.”

“Yup.”

“In the uh— interest of,” he lifts a hand and waves it airily. “-Was it a— uh. A one time thing? Which is totally fine if that’s what you want by the way. I’m not— There’s no pressure. But if you- uh—” He clears his throat. “If it wasn’t a one time thing. Then— um— That would be fine too.”

Oh. Derek swallows. “Which do you want?”

“I asked you first.”

“Stiles—” Derek hesitates.

“It’s ok if you don’t like me like that,” Stiles says immediately. “I know we’re not. I know you don’t feel that—”

“Don’t tell me what I feel,” Derek snaps.

“Ok. Fine, then _you_ tell _me_ ,” Stiles glares at him.

Rolling off of him, Derek sits up in bed and sighs deeply. “I like you,” he says, eventually. 

A relieved smile passes over Stiles face. “Oh thank god, I like you too.”

Immediately there’s a popping sound, and a feeling in Derek’s chest like a rubber band just snapped— pressure releasing. A tension he didn’t even realize had been there. From the look on Stiles’ face, he felt it too. It occurs to Derek that in all the years they've known each other, this is the first time they have admitted that simple truth out loud.

“Do you think—?” Stiles says.

Derek lifts his hands. “Only one way to find out.”

Carefully Stiles swings his legs out of the bed and sits on the edge. Then with one last look at Derek, he gets up and walks to the other end of the room. 

Nothing. Nada. No pain. 

They grin at each other.

“Well I guess we solved that one,” Stiles says with a grin.

“Yeah. I guess we did.” Derek says. “Now come back to bed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well that's all folks! Thanks for reading, if you felt like leaving comments or kudos on this fic then I'm eternally grateful to you! You guys, as always, are the true MVP's :-)
> 
> Also you can find me on [tumblr,](http://yodas-yo-yo.tumblr.com/) :D


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